Motion sickness

For those of you following the continuing saga of my little life--you'll laugh! you'll cry! you'll demand refills on popcorn and a full refund of your ticket price!--I am pleased to report that I made it to Pittsburgh without any trouble at all, really, and have started my new job. So far, so good. This may even stick longer, like, say, three years and a month or so, unlike my last job, which I finished in just under three years (two years, eleven months, and three days to be exact), and my last address, where I did time for a little more than two years.

"Did time" is really an unfair analysis of my life on Main Street, Anyburg, PA, USA. I had the world's greatest apartment, middle-class division. The Taj Mahal/Versailles/Sydney Opera House/Chateau Frontenac/Machu Picchu of apartments, at least among those that cost under $800 a month and don't overlook Central Park, Lake Michigan, or San Francisco Bay. I had even just about decorated it the way I wanted it (settling on a color scheme for the dining room/kitchen was my last Linda Barker-esque conundrum), my summer garden was approaching full bloom and full flavor, I had finally begun to explore the shops and restaurants that Anyburg had to offer (other than Jo Jo's Pizza and Rakestraw's Ice Cream Shop, the first and last places I dined in the Midstate) . . . .

And then I up and move again.

So what's with all the motion and commotion? The simple analysis is that I bore rather easily. I need a lot of intelligent and aesthetic stimuli--or at least some groovy/weird middle-to-low-brow pop culture and a few French hotels to make me feel like a sentient being--and have been craving said stimuli for years. Long before I moved to Pennsylvania. Maybe even ever since I left grad school. Or even before that, since I left Washington in the early 1990s.

The more detailed analysis (and I promise to keep it reasonably brief, if by brief I mean in a Genesis creation story kind of way) is that I had very little life outside of work. To make matters worse, I had a great deal of work to do. And to segue quickly from worse to worst, I didn't particularly enjoy the work I was doing. One might even say somewhere after a year of doing it, I began to loathe it, to cringe at the thought of going into work every morning, to shudder at what was coming next, whatever it may be. Whether it was the nature of the work itself or the reality of the work environment, I cannot quite say, although betting that it was a bit of both is a safe wager.

I figured out about a year or more ago that I needed to move on, that no amount of tweaking great or small, was going to fix the problem of work or life. But I needed to move on in a reasonable way, on to something better, and not just professionally but personally--god, please, personally!--as well. I'm magnificent at thinking of what will make me happy professionally first and personally second. In fact, I major in it and am thinking of a post-graduate degree in it, I'm just that good.

With this relocation, I now think that I've done so, made a move that has the potential to be successful and satisfying both personally and professionally. Fingers crossed.

Still, it does follow soon on the heels of my Dad's passing. Yes, yes, it has to be asked and it has been asked, believe me: Is it too soon? Am I just running away from my problems? Will this make things better? And my answer is that I didn't just come up with the idea to move and change jobs on March 15, the day after my Dad died, that, actually, I have proof--a cover letter to a certain unnamed university in Canada--that shows I have had this move on my mind since at least June 2006. I can also tell you that, according to my Mom, my Dad was one to change jobs every three years or so, and if he had been single, he, too, would have been one to move every three years. So this commotion and constant motion--it comes honestly to me.

It comes honest, yes, but it comes at a price. I feel lucky to have known a lot of wonderful people at my work, and I'd like to think that I have made some friends along the way. In many ways, my life--at least my life outside of work--was calmer and quieter than ever before, and I needed that, especially after my last couple of years in Texas and especially with everything that went on with my Dad and my family over the last few years. So it is daunting and ever so slightly frightening to give up that peace of mind. I'm hoping, though, in the process, that I don't give up the friendships I made, that they indeed are more durable and elastic than peace of mind.

* * *

Is Pittsburgh the answer, though?

To be totally footloose and fancy-frost-free about it, all I can say at this point is, who knows? Which does not comfort those who might question my ability to make decisions for myself. But, really, who does know? About anything, I mean. You can think things through, plan for every contingency, be aware of every potential calamity and adjust for it, and still, after all the planning and worry, fall flat on your face on a birthday cake in a rain puddle. And then get run over by a semi immediately afterwards. And then get your wallet stolen by a bum and have a dog wee on you. So it's good to think things through, but in my worldview, it can only get you so far.

I guess then what I'm hoping is that Pittsburgh is the answer right now, at least for a while. Or if not the answer, then a good, albeit possibly temporary, cure. It solves--or at least, salves--a number of life and work problems for me in the shorter term, and I'm hopeful that it will do so in the longer term as well.

I like Pittsburgh. A great deal, actually. I make jokes about it--that it's the Baltimore of Appalachia (Editor's note: I've been known to describe everywhere and anywhere as the Baltimore of this or that; e.g., San Antonio, the Baltimore of the Southwest, although that could apply to El Paso just as easily), that it's West Virginia with skyscrapers. There is a funky John Waters-but-really-Andy Warhol charm and grit about the place, part Appalachia, part Central, Southern, and Eastern Europe, and ultimately quintessentially Pennsylvania. Coal miners and steelworkers--in spirit if no longer in deed--coupled with robber baron cultural institutions, a revitalized high tech and biomedical economy, a native dialect, a somewhat puzzling but engaging geography, a funky "downtown" vibe in some of the neighborhoods, and a significant sprinkling of the sparkly confetti of gay life.

It's an appealing mix. A little bit country, a little bit rock-and-roll. Just like yours truly, minus the Colgate smile and singing family of perfectly coiffed brothers in leisure suits. So if the question is, "Will Pittsburgh help make you a little happier and keep you in place for a while?" then the answer is a resounding, "You betcha!"

* * *

All told, if I could have complete control over my choice of anywhere in North America to live, at least among the places I've been to, I'd select Toronto or Chicago first. Also-rans might include Montreal (although I would need to acquire some language skills très rapidement and really have to think about those long, cold winters, unless a young Gino Vannelli, or a reasonable facsimile, were on tap), as well as Denver, Minneapolis, and, yes, believe it or not, Baltimore, hon.

Philly's not bad, a little sprawling and a lot decaying, but it has its charms; I like Boston as well, although I've spent very little time there; New York is great but overwhelming and who can afford it anyway?; and San Francisco, while seductive, gorgeous, and a lot of fun--a veritable urban one-night-stand--ultimately leaves me feeling empty and sullen, vowing only to look for love and career opportunities in all the right places. (Editor's note: I've never been to Seattle, Portland, or Vancouver, so I just do not know, OK?)

And if Mexico is considered part of North America--and I would find it challenging to argue otherwise--there's also Mexico City, Guadalajara, and Monterrey to consider, each with their charms (the Zócalo in Mexico City; "the city of roses" that is Guadalajara; that weird and massive sculpture of Neptune in the center of Monterrey, a land-locked, water-starved city) and menaces (the crush of humanity and relentless begging in Mexico City; the curious light rail system in Guadalajara, which seems to connect to no place you want to visit; the freeway-system-as-bullfighting-ring in Monterrey).

But except for Denver, Baltimore, and Minneapolis, the others are great honkin' huge cities. And what was that I said about peace of mind? Well, I just don't think I could face that again, the noise, the traffic, the aggro, the fear. Been there, done that, for seven years in D.C. as a matter of fact. And while Washington was fun, thrilling, educational, and enriching, so was my first semester of college, my first rock concert, and my first sexual experience. Please, don't make me go back.

So Pittsburgh fits quite easily into my personal top ten of North American cities in which to reside. I'd even log it at number 6, maybe even number 5, with a (figuratively speaking, let's pray) bullet.

That may well be the best I can expect at this point in my life. A little choice. A little control or say in that choice. Nothing's ever perfect, or at least is ever going to be, as long as me and my one thousand and one worries are involved. But this is good, very good. And things can only get better. At least I'm hoping so. In fact, I'm maybe even starting to believe so.